


Teasing Faith

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Chair Sex, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dry Humping, F/M, Finger Sucking, Forced Orgasm, Gloved Fingering, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Light Humiliation, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Nudity, Sort Of, Table Sex, Teasing, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Credo, a man of unshakeable faith.Apparently.
Relationships: Credo (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 85





	Teasing Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This exists because I am a slave for Credo, but no content for him exists, and so a gurl's gotta write it all her gotdang self!!!!! 😤😤 I didn't intend for this to be finished any time soon, but the people responsible for me finishing this know who they are, and I hope they're all happy!!!!!!! And a big thank you to Muzz and Rev for helping me settle on a title for this!!! Me stupid butt got stuck on a title (as usual), and they came in to save the day. 😔✊ Bless...
> 
> I otherwise don't have an excuse for the content of this fic. I just-- really want to wreck the poor guy ok, don't judge me 😭😭 I don't know how many here are as into Credo as I am, but for those of you who're taking the time to read this, thank you so much!! And I hope you enjoy this... uh... thing. That I made 💖?!??!?!?!
> 
> And as a heads up, while this DOES utilise the exact same setting as my [**Verses of Fortuna**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650229/chapters/54135061) series, this is a completely separate universe. I just needed a setting I could use to write some shameless smut, and this was the easiest way. 😭

For the most part, Credo's office is silent, the still air permeated only by the sound of his pen scratching on paper as he tries to work.

Tries to.

More and more, he catches himself staring, unblinking at the printed words of the documents in front of him. Not reading, not absorbing, just staring down at the abstract shapes of the letters as he tries to remember what sound that particular squiggle makes. Nothing comes to him. Nothing is distinct. He can't focus. His head is swimming. His entire body feels like it's... floating. Yes, that's a good word for it. It's dreamlike. Fuzzy. Credo tries to keep his breathing even, tries to keep the fluster in his cheeks to a minimum. Ah, his body feels so uncomfortably _warm_. He must be getting sick… and who is to blame for this? None other than you of course.

Credo leans back in his chair, exhales a long breath through his nose, then sucks in an abrupt gasp, almost a whine if his dignity were any less intact. His free hand slips under his desk, leather-clad fingers entwining themselves in your hair to follow along with the gentle motions of your head bobbing on his cock. You glance up at him through your lashes, eyes glittering with mischief as you moan, exaggerated for his ears, and his ears only, and slowly pull yourself off his shaft. You feel it throb when you reach the head, tasting sweet victory on the tip of your tongue in another stream of precum. The wet pop you deliberately make as you let his cock spring free from your lips makes him groan, makes his thighs tense under your fingers. The leather of the belts he keeps strapped around them groan in protest too as they pull and strain against his legs. Why does he even have those?

"Giving up already?" You give the base of his cock a slow pump. "Wasn't this your idea?" When you dip your head to run the very tip of your tongue up his length, he doesn't stop you. When you purse your lips over the thick head of his cock and let it push past into your hot mouth, he doesn't stop you. Even though his face burns with embarrassment, can feel it twisting in his gut, he'd be crazy to even think about putting a stop to the immoral flicks of your tongue.

Because it _was_ his idea. To have you hidden under his desk, nestled so snugly between his thighs, shirt open to reveal a modest bra; that somehow makes the sight all the more thrilling. It's a filthy fantasy he'd dutifully kept to himself until you coaxed it out of him one day, just as you'd coaxed out every last drop of his cum with your hand mere moments prior, and painted both your bodies with thick ribbons of creamy white. The recollection of that blissed look on your face makes his cock twitch in your mouth, forces another strained gasp, as he shyly, so shyly, guides your head until you've taken all of him in your mouth again. His fingers idly, lovingly, stroke at the nape of your neck, while your tongue matches their patterns against the base of his shaft, laving at his skin in between generous suckling.

It's almost too much.

He's never had a blowjob before, had only ever relied on the thoughts of what your hot little mouth would feel like around him, trying to replicate motions he'd made up with his own hand. But nothing could possibly compare to the wet heat of the real thing. Or your curious tongue as it licks and probes. Or the way you suck until your cheeks hollow out. But perhaps what he thrives on the most are the little noises you make; the appreciative moans; the desperate little gasps when you taste his precum on your tongue. But his absolute favourite has to be the sounds of your enthusiastic, wet slurps while you work his cock with your mouth. They're somehow so loud and so _filthy_ in his ears. Depraved. Vile. Wicked. But it gets him hard like nothing else. He loves the sound of the attention that you give him. He loves the sound of _you_.

Credo swallows a lump in his throat, grips at your hair. "I'm… going to--" He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, already feeling heat rise to his cheeks at even the implication of it. Voicing it is too far beyond him at this stage - he couldn't possibly tell you the things he wants to do to you. The things he wants _you_ to do to _him_.

But he feels it beginning to boil inside him. He wants it. He wants to spill onto your tongue and down your throat and watch as you swallow it all. And Saviour have mercy on him if he catches a dribble of his cum rolling past the corner of your lips…

An image flashes behind his closed eyes suddenly with such a fierce and overwhelming clarity that he physically jerks; of you with ropes of white dripping down your face, contrasting so beautifully with the fluster in your cheeks, tongue lolling out of your mouth to catch the last few spurts of cum as he pumps at his cock above you. Your own hand is between your legs too, in this shameful fantasy of his, working yourself to an orgasm while he leaves his mark, his scent, his _everything_ all over your face--

A series of rapid knocks at his office door immediately yanks Credo back from the brink, the vision he'd conjured up in his mind instantly dissipating in a panic. His eyes shoot open, and below him, you pull back, shooting him a rather disappointed look (at least he _thinks_ it's disappointed). Ah… the game's over, it would seem, but when he (reluctantly) goes to roll his chair back to let you out, you hook your fingers underneath the straps around his thighs and pull him back in, resuming your position between his legs with a smoothness and efficiency that feels like you _belong_ there. He almost moans.

"Let them in," you murmur, lips already pressed against the underside of his twitching cock again. It's blushing a pretty red in your hands to match the colour high up in Credo's cheeks, still gently pulsing with an intense need. "This is part of your fantasy isn't it?" Kisses are peppered up his thick length until you reach his head, where the very tip of your tongue laps at his leaking slit. It's both a blessing and a curse that you didn't seal your lips around it; he's so fucking close that the mere feel of your wet mouth around him will send him barelling over the edge for sure--

And yet thinks you already know this, and _that's_ why you're refraining.

"I couldn't-- That's too--" Credo stammers nervously, almost as if he's trying to convince _himself_ , but even he seems to know how weak it sounds. Lord only knows what it must sound like to you.

"You wanted me to test your limits, didn't you?" Your eyes, though completely human in origin, glitter and gleam with an air of danger; so far from the quiet assistant he thought you were. It makes something deep within him stir, pulling on restraints he'd kept under lock and key for so long, guarded with such a rigorous care. But you're holding on to that key now, letting it dangle and swing so precariously from the very tips of your fingers…

This is absurd, he thinks to himself, utter madness, doing such a thing… _letting this happen_ , and it's all your fault. Those pouty lips, those knowing coquettish looks, that deliberate sashay of your hips… yes, he's looked. Ogled even, eyes following the hypnotic swish of your skirt as you walk. You did this to him. And he loves it. He wants it.

_He wants it so bad_.

"Come in," he barks, voice even and authoritative, showing only the slightest hints of strain. For such an honest man, so sincere that it teeters on the edge of lunacy, he's certainly capable when it comes to putting on airs. Across the room, slowly, hesitantly, the doors of his office creak open, and a hooded figure steps through, booted feet thudding softly on the carpeted floors as they move to stand before Credo's desk. There must be something on his face, a crease in his brow, a frown, borderline _snarl_ that pulls at his lips, because the stranger is afraid to speak, feeling so small, and so exposed. They peer around the room, looking for someone perhaps a little less apparently moody and slightly easier to talk to. Looking for _you_. Their eyes land on your desk facing the wall, devoid of any signs that it's been inhabited this morning, save for your coat draped over the back of your chair. But try as they might, hard as they may hope, they will never find you, tucked so secretly away between your Captain's legs, tongue greedily laving at his taut, heavy balls. No one but Credo will _ever_ know, and fuck, that's making him achingly hard too.

How is it that when this close to danger, this close to a scandal of unprecedented scale, he's still shifting his hips, urging his cock, thick and hard, ever closer to your face? When did he start becoming this way? So greedy for your mouth on him...

He swallows a painful gulp of air. "What is it?" Credo prompts. His hands rise above his desk, and with the extra room such a motion has granted, you lean forward, closer, pressing some of your weight onto his thighs, that sinful little tongue of yours never relenting in mapping out the sensitivities of his skin. He shifts in his seat, not uncomfortable - far from it in fact. But he has to consciously wrench the thought of what you might feel like actually sitting in his lap and toss it from the confines of his thoughts.

"It's about the report from yesterday… Sir." The title is added awkwardly, nervously at the end. "I thought I would follow up on it and provide the full details in person."

Under his desk, you stop for a moment, listening, granting your Captain a moment's reprieve from the brink of sin. His pulse slows, and his shoulders imperceptibly relax, but still, he hides his face behind his hands, lacing his fingers together.

"Go on." He says, and it takes you an extra second to realise he's talking to you too.

"Naughty boy," you whisper to the base of his cock, and the subsequent quiver of his thighs indicates to you that he heard you. You transfer your weight from your haunches to your knees, angling his cock to line the tip of it up with your mouth, and though he can't see you, your lips pull into a coy smile before you swallow him down, engulfing his length in one languid, easy motion. You hum when he hits the back of your throat, thighs squeezing together to provide friction on your aching core.

This is difficult for you too.

"The one at fault for the… um, scuffle during yesterday's training was me… Sir." Again, Credo's title is tacked on awkwardly at the end. It tells you that this Knight is a mere fledgling - newly joined with the last batch of trainees. But if nothing else, their courage to accept responsibility is commendable. Not that it's your business. You have a much more tasty morsel in front of you, and so you tune the rest of the conversation out in favour of hollowing out your cheeks to suck on your Captain's cock like it's your last meal.

Deft fingers curl around the base of his length, pumping him with slow, shallow twists of your wrist while your tongue swipes at his frenulum. His legs spread wider, he shifts his weight again, and you can swear his hips are beginning to gyrate oh so slightly, trying to thrust more of his cock into the heat of your mouth.

It's thrilling, not only for him, but for you as well - crammed under his desk and sucking him off with another person in the room is much more of an electrifying experience than you thought. And though it isn't your reputation on the line, it's simply his enthusiasm, the eager throbs of his shaft in your mouth, the taste of him that overwhelms and melts your senses, that has you quietly mewling around him. Your heart is hammering wildly, not only in your chest, but it beats in your ears too, a maddening thrum that sets the pace when you begin to bob your head. Yet even over the roar of your own pulse, you can hear Credo's voice strain above you. His body bends in a peculiar way, and you think he's hunched over on his desk, but you can't really be sure. All that you _are_ certain of is that he's being pushed to the edge again. Part of you is filled with mirth, thinking that's _just so soon_. Your Captain is truly a helpless slut. And only for you.

But can you make him spill his cum down your throat while talking to another person? Or is he too proud of a Knight? You're dead set on finding out.

You double your efforts, a combination of your saliva and his precum dribbling from your mouth to lubricate the path your fingers take against his flushed cock, smoothing out the hastening pumping of your hand. You wonder if your delighted sighs and moans can reach his ears, if the eager slurping can be heard beyond the confines of his desk. You almost want to whine louder to test your boundaries, but suddenly, one of Credo's boots slides forward. It hits the enclosed front panel of his desk, jolting the entire structure - the only sign that anything is wrong - and then his cock is steadily pulsing in your mouth, twitching with each forceful spurt of cum. With a muffled, pleasured moan, you sink lower, wedging more of his length down your velvety throat, and swallow each salty pump of his release.

And when the flow of his essence slows to a trickle, you give his tender cock one final, thorough suck, and pull yourself off him. Credo still doesn't move, his legs keeping you trapped under his desk until you can hear another set of booted feet leave the room. He waits an extra minute until the footsteps completely fade into the distance just to be safe, leaving you ample free time to gently massage his flagging cock, press loving kisses down the length of it, and whisper quiet words of praise that simultaneously warm him _and_ make him shudder. When he finally does let you out, you seat yourself in his lap, straddling his thighs that are still tense, still trembling, and take in his now lax expression. His eyes are an entirely different shade now and fogged over with bliss, but you know that deep inside those eyes of his, your Captain is watching you. Committing this to memory. Thinking ahead. Formulating a plot that won't rear its head for weeks. Maybe even months.

But that tenacity fades when you settle further into his lap, and the weight of you anchors him firmly back into reality, where your wet panties brush up against his sensitive cock. He sucks a breath in through his teeth, but you only nestle even closer, your arms slipping over his broad shoulders and winding around his neck to bring your face right up to his. Credo's lips part automatically when you lean forward, anticipating and wholly welcoming your eager, open-mouthed kiss. It's far from modest, and even further from chaste - a mere debauched infusion of tongues and teeth and desperate breaths that fan over both of your cheeks. There's a peculiar taste on your tongue too, something bitter, something salty. But when it's complemented by the natural sweetness of your flavour, his brow relaxes, one gloved hand moving to rest on your lower back, the other moving to your thigh, only _just_ teasing the hem of your skirt. It was off putting at first, that unusual taste, but it grows on him quickly. Of course it does, with how fervently your tongue melds with his, insistent on sharing the taste of his seed. So insistent that a thin trail of saliva seeps from the corner of his mouth. And when you pull back, another string stretches between the tips of your tongues. By the time it snaps, hitting the flushed skin of your bare chest, he's already hard again.

How so very shameful. Was once not enough?

Credo takes in that sultry curve of your lips, eyes drawn to the pointed tip of your tongue as it skims your teeth, and decides no. Once will never be enough. Not if it's you.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Captain?" You take this chance to rut against the hard underside of his cock, slowly, bobbing like a gentle ocean not with the intent to test him, but for your own benefit. How tempting it is, how simple it would be, to pull the seat of your panties to one side and let him slide deep into your embrace... "Could you taste yourself on my tongue?" Your breath hitches, and you think if you keep grinding against him like this, you might actually reach that toe curling peak as well. "Such a naughty boy, cumming so hard with a new recruit in the room."

The sound that Credo makes falls _just_ short of being a whine, his eyes flickering to the side, away from your accusing gaze. His face feels hot again, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears, but his cock twitches, both at your slow, sinuous movements _and_ the abundance of filth you're whispering into his ear. Because it's true, it's true, it's all true. When your voice drops even lower, when he feels you tug at his ear lobe with your teeth, he actually does gasp.

"Did they know?"

"No." His voice doesn't sound like his own. It's worn and tense, sounding so foreign, as if it belongs to a complete stranger.

"Good boy," you hum softly against his temple. You let him lean into the contact for only a second, basking in a momentary tenderness, and then you're recentering your position on his lap, eyes sliding downward to his crotch where his cock still stands to attention. It's returned to a healthy shade of pink again, a far cry from the flushed angry red from before... You grip it gingerly, gently taking it in your hand and working it back into his pants. Credo hisses, hips shamelessly thrusting upwards into your hand in an unspoken plea for more, _please, more,_ but you shoot him a look up through heavily lidded eyes. "We have work to do today, Captain," you take the time to deliberately thumb at the pulsing vein that runs the length of his shaft, teasing it gently as you guide it back into his trousers. He lets out a breathless gasp, and you feel him press his fingers desperately into your thigh - a physical representation of his restraint. "Or are you so lost to these carnal pleasures that you are willing to forsake your work?"

At that, his chest stops heaving, and something flashes across his eyes. Something fleeting, but so distinct from the unclear, unfocused haze that fogs their colour. He knows you have a point, and despite the constant steady pumps of your hand, that slow circular motion of your thumb, he swallows the lump in his throat, and exhales every last thought of you. He hears you laugh softly to yourself, followed by the slow pull of the fly of his trousers, sealing his cock away.

"Very good, Captain."

The weight of your body lifts away after that, and as simply as that, your demeanour returns to the one he's used to - calm, collected, and demure. At least until his gaze drops just a touch to your bra-clad breasts still hanging out the front of your open shirt.

"Are you not going to--" His question is cut off when you thrust your chest towards him in an unspoken request. You did meticulously tuck him away after all, hiding the thick bulge in his pants underneath his coat and ensuring he'd be presentable to the countless men and women who look up to him, so it's only right that he return the favour. And so he does, with nervous fingers, starting with the lowermost button of your shirt. It's nothing but a flimsy excuse to force him to stare down at your breasts as he works, but with the telling clenching of his jaw as he fights back another blush, you know it's taken effect. His brow twitches when you moan, only _slightly_ exaggerated, as the material pulls taut over your pebbled nipples, barely covered by that bra, but that's all the reaction he gives you.

You're not sure whether you're proud, or disappointed.

But either way, you lean onto the very tips of your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek when he's finished, then you're pivoting away to head back towards your desk, leaving Credo staring into the empty space you've left in front of him. He's just had the best fucking blowjob of his life (accurate, considering it is still his _only_ blowjob), and yet rather than feel any sense of satisfaction, he's as tense as ever - every muscle in his body bridling with a cold rigidity that starkly contrasts with the simmering heat in his loins.

His intuition tells him it isn't over. But what else could you possibly want from him? There isn't any more of his fantasy to play out. So why…? He dares not think of it.

So slate eyes slide shut, and there, he seeks his peace by going over the day's scheduled inspections. Equipment, then overseeing training, then going over the delivery of ore that was recently shipped to the city. And unless he's mistaken, and Credo rarely is, that should be all that's lined up for the day. It isn't a harsh day of work that's awaiting him by any means, but it'll certainly be trying when he's still so hard…

He chances a look over at you by your desk where you're slipping your coat on. You've taken the liberty of securing that over your body yourself at the very least, your posture returning to the professional air you typically carry with you. Any onlookers would certainly have no idea you just got done bringing your Captain to orgasm with your mouth. Nobody could ever possibly find out that behind closed doors, the dynamic is reversed, and that he is helpless before your every whim. Why is that thought so bewitching? So enticing? His own dirty little secret--

No.

Stop.

"We should head out, Sir." Your voice has lost its provocative lilt, replaced by a deeper, neutral tone, and after securing your Durandal to your hip, you move to stand by the door to await him, staring ahead of you.

Credo hums, watching you for just a moment longer, at least until his heart rate slows, and the throbbing in his pants fades. And then he's squaring his shoulders to follow in your footsteps, returning to a much more familiar routine. One that's far easier for him to handle. When he rounds his desk to meet with you across the room, it's as Captain and subordinate once more.

...for about ten seconds.

"Ah… I'd nearly forgotten…" Your head tilts upwards towards him, prompting your Captain to glance back at you. "There _is_ one last thing that requires your attention. I've left it on my desk, Sir. Only you have the authorization to examine it."

He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing curiously, almost suspiciously. It isn't like you to forget to address something, but considering the events of the morning already, he can't really hold it against you - he would have too. So with his expression set into a light curiosity, he strides back towards your desk against the wall. It's as organised as it always is - cleared whenever not in use - but today there is one lone manila folder sitting square in the center. The top of it sits slightly ajar, as if something a bit thicker than mere paper sits inside it… How strange.

"It isn't particularly urgent, but the requestee asks that you address their needs by tonight."

Credo shoots you another look at that, somewhat concerned over your very particular choice in phrasing, but with a quiet acknowledging hum, he picks up the folder and opens it. As he'd surmised, there _is_ something other than paper inside, but before he can properly glimpse it, it comes tumbling out when the cover is opened. Fortunately, with instincts ever keen, he catches it before it falls to the floor, inadvertently bundling something small and white into his fist. Intuition tells him he should be wary, already taking the initiative to pump adrenaline through his body. Whatever is in his hand is _bad_ , his mind has already decided for him, but it's an intrusive inquisitiveness that has him unclenching his fist to find the tiniest piece of underwear he's ever seen in his life: flimsy, mainly strings, and _completely_ see-through. Letting out a choked gasp of surprise, his hand immediately closes back over it again, as if the mere sight of it alone will condemn him, and then he's snapping his head back over to you as if demanding an explanation.

And thank the Saviour you had the prudence to tuck his hard cock back into his pants pointing upwards, because if he hadn't before, then the sight of you standing by the door has assuredly left a little wet spot on his pants by now, situated right over the head of his cock as it twitches back to life. Because there, by the door, with a devious little grin thrown at him over your shoulder, you've hiked up the back of your skirt to reveal the smooth globes of your bare ass. One hand snakes down to spread your cheeks, revealing glistening folds, and proving to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are _absolutely not wearing any underwear_ , and that, Saviour help him, the garment he's holding in his hand is fresh off of your body.

Shame scalds him. How did you manage to do this without his knowledge? When? Is he truly this far gone?

And just like that, as easily as that, he's disgustingly hard again. "Hang onto that for me, would you, Captain?"

Credo clenches his fist hard enough that the leather audibly squeaks.  
  


* * *

  
In public view of others, you behave as you always do - serious and professional, hands either at your sides or, in mimicry of Credo himself, folded behind you. You are stern, snapping back at talkative recruits, and should you ever pass Agnus in the halls, you always make sure to shoot him a truly venomous look.

Nothing is different.

But when you're both crammed into the storeroom, lined a little too generously with shelves stacked full of training equipment, that's when that sly little mix makes her return. You've backed him up against one of the shelves, your ass pressed firmly against the prominent bulge in the front of his pants, verbally going through a checklist while you cross off each item on the clipboard in your hands. Not once do you look at him as you work, your hips rolling and rutting to sandwich his clothed cock between the cheeks of your ass as best as you can.

He's trying his best not to look down to where your skirt sits bunched up around your hips. Where each perfect globe rubs and grinds so deliciously against him. He wrenches his jaw shut, letting only the barest of groans slip from deep inside his chest, and to keep him from reaching down to cup one rounded cheek in his palm, _like he so badly wants to do_ , Credo grips one of the shelves at his side with enough force that he leaves indents in the iron, the flat plane giving under his hand with a protesting creak.

"I'm sorry Captain," that beguiling tone of voice is back in full force, accompanied by an almost mocking laugh, "is this not how you pictured having me bent over? You'd rather have me over your desk, wouldn't you?"

Images automatically begin to rise in his mind, of you helpless under him with his fingers in your mouth, holding that damnable tongue of yours down. His cock is pistoning in and out of your core with such an ease that he can hear a wet squelching on every stroke, even over the sound of your muffled mewling. You're drooling all over his fingers too - it's cascading down your chin and dripping onto his desk. In this new fantasy, passerbys can hear you moaning. Some unholy amalgamation of his name and his title, and they _know_ who you belong to. They _know_ who's forcing you over the edge and right into the new heaven you've only very recently introduced him to.

With a strangled gasp, Credo falls back to earth when he feels your fingers close over his wrist, pulling and pulling until it lands on your hip where you coax his fingers wide, spreading them so they cover as much of your bare skin as possible.

"Show me how you want me," the way your voice sounds within this compact storeroom alone has his head spinning, "teach me how you'd like it."

Your request sends a cold shiver through his entire body, contrasting so perfectly with his rising temperature that it grants him a brief moment of respite from such a suffocating heat. Your hand over his presses the tips of his fingers into your soft body, encouraging him to guide your ass against him to his own liking, but you don't feel any persuasion from him, gentle or otherwise, and you frown, disappointed. He isn't looking at you, eyes shyly cast somewhere off to the side in spite of the stifled moans he's hiding behind the back of his other hand.

And _oh_ , what a sight that is for you. Even though his cock is so delightfully hard, he's still so meek, so demure, so _pure_ that he cannot even bear to look at you despite feeling so damn good. Despite having already spilled one load into your greedy, wanting mouth. Your scary, stoic Captain, the Surpreme General of the Holy Knights, _the shining beacon of the entire Order_ , is such a cute little mess for you, and that makes you so fucking wet, your cunt spasming at the mere thought of having tarnished such a divine reputation.

"You don't want me?" You do your best to sound saddened, but suddenly you're being forced up against the shelving in front of you, eliciting a genuinely surprised yelp. The clipboard in your hands clatters to the floor somewhere, forgotten the very moment it slips from your grasp, because there's now an overbearing heat at your back, and strong arms circling your torso - one slipping around your waist, and the other kneading at one of your breasts. But what has you arching your back and voicing your pleasure to the ceiling is the clumsy, desperate rutting into you from behind. Credo can hardly speak, partly because he's pressed his face into the crook of your neck where he intends to hide away until one or both of you cum, but _mostly_ because he's too ashamed to, finding it easier to simply puff hot breaths of air against you while he humps and grinds.

He's never had you in his arms before, so sinfully close that he can smell the fragrance of your body soap on each ragged inhale he sucks in. You fit so perfectly against him too, the contours of your body aligning and slotting into the angles of his own - you're tall enough for him to grind haplessly into your backside, but still short enough that he can loom over you and cage your body in with his broader frame. It's perfect. You're perfect. Perfect, perfect, _perfect_.

And that's why you're so bad for him, too.

"I want you--" he rasps in between his clumsy strokes, his hips constantly rolling, varying in speed and angles to find new points of stimulation against your soft ass. Each point of contact invites a whole new range of sensation that sweeps over him, and though you're only simulating the act of sex, it's just as electrifying. Just as gratifying. There can be no denying that the front of his pants are damp with a darkened, wet splotch by now, but as long as it doesn't soak through to the material of his overcoat - that modest little flap that's been hiding his painful erection all morning - then he can leak as much precum as he wants. "All of you-- I want-- this--" His words are gasped and broken because that's all he can pull together before the burn in his face becomes too much to bear and he lapses back into a silence that's punctuated only by soft groans into your shoulder.

"Credo…" the helpless whisper of his name is followed by a frantic shuffling of his boots on the floor as he presses tighter against you, hips stuttering before they find their pace again, somehow more frenzied than before. The hand that's still massaging at one of your breasts squeezes down on it in a jerky twitch.

The sound of his name. Just the sound of his actual name from you gets him so hard that his body jolts from the pain of it. The rawness of the aching in his crotch is beyond anything he's ever felt before - it's so tender that it burns, and yet it still feels so _good_.

"May I c--" ah, he still can't let himself say it, still can't muster up the courage to ask for what he wants, and that weakness, that chip in his armour forces you to squeeze your thighs together in a vain effort to relieve the aching desire for something physical. You'd slip your own hand between your legs to toy with your wet folds, but they're both braced against the shelves before you to support your body, lest you be crushed under the utter desperation of the man at your back.

And if you can't cum yet, then you decide he can't either. "No." That single word possesses hardly even an iota of gravity, panted out and wheezy as it is. But you can hear Credo choke on a breath as his hips immediately go still, can physically _feel_ his will drain from his body. You think he might even be sinking his teeth into the shoulder pad of your uniform, but you can't really tell when your mind is focusing only on the wanton desire you're clenching between your thighs. Far too slowly, both sets of laboured breathing begin to even out as you both stand completely motionless, too afraid to even shift your weight into a more comfortable position for fear of reopening the floodgates and getting swept up and away in fevered and unabated lust. When hearts finally slow, the stifling heat of him then lifts off your body. The arms holding you in place slip away, and he staggers backwards until his back collides with the shelves behind him.

Your coy laughter rings in his ears more than the steel does.  
  


* * *

  
  
The warm sun and early afternoon breeze are a refreshing change of pace for the _both_ of you after the little escapade in the storeroom. It washes that gentle citrus fragrance of your body soap from his senses, and the warmth from the sun high above replaces the heat you felt when you were trapped between his body and a set of practice swords.

There is nothing to distract him from his work here - you are on the opposite end of the courtyard to him, monitoring a different batch of recruits as they hone their hand-to-hand combat skills. It doesn't factor into their overall training results, but it is a crucial skill to have nonetheless, and so, even as an outsider, you are allowed to supervise alone, and without Credo's input. But still, every now and then, he finds himself casting his gaze over at you. Your back is turned to him, but that merely leaves him the opportunity to admire the outline of your legs, emphasized by the raised heel of your boots. What would they feel like when wrapped around his waist?

He banishes the thought before it can settle too comfortably in his mind. It's a fair bit easier than he thought it would be, but that's mostly due to a sudden gale that surges through the courtyard of Fortuna Castle. It whips at the banners flying from the turrets above, but more importantly, it tugs at your skirt, billowing it up from below to grant him the briefest glimpse of your bare ass, and Credo suddenly is all too aware of the wad of material he slipped into his pocket in the morning. It weighs him down like it's a lump of coal - a cruel reminder that the only thing protecting your modesty is that skirt that's now teasing up, higher and higher. You make no attempt to be modest or to hold it down. But you _do_ throw a look over your shoulder, as if you knew Credo would be watching.

He snaps his head away immediately.  
  


* * *

  
There is a warehouse on the way to Agnus' lab where all static components - raw metals and ore - are stored for easy access, and it is there the two of you head after training to ensure a correct delivery from the mainland. Normally this sort of thing is done at the docks before the ferry leaves, but wild weather saw to a hastened, rushed process, and well. Here you both are.

But why then, is Credo's hand under your skirt? Why are you grinding yourself on his gloved fingers while you moan and cry out? Because you're as much of a little slut as he is.

The only difference being that you enjoy putting on a show for him if it means his cheeks are dusted with that adorable little blush.

"Stop," again, he sounds so completely unconvincing, "the gloves..."

But you refuse to let go of him, holding his larger hand between both of yours and guiding his fingers against your labia. You've been wet for him all day, and it takes only a scant few strokes to generously coat the leather of his gloved fingers in your slick. You're merciless today, shameless in all the ways that leave him heaving and breathless, clamouring for words that disintegrate before they leave his mouth. He can't directly feel how wet and how warm you are, how needy he's made you, but he _knows_ by virtue of how easily and smoothly his digits glide through your folds. Can hear it too, that wet sloshing of his fingers on your cunt. And all the while, he's looking down at your lecherous expression with a sense of stress that's heavily implied through the deep crease between his brows.

"Touch me like how I showed you, Captain," you tease. Hound. Prod. Provoke. His hand disappears further under your skirt, pulled under by a softer, smaller pair. He lets it happen. "You remember, don't you?"

Oh he does. That was the night you sat upon his desk, legs spread wide before him. He watched as you touched yourself, talked him through what you liked, and where he should stroke and rub, spreading open the most intimate parts of you, so pretty and pink for his viewing pleasure. He remembers thinking, with a devastating sense of white hot shame, that he'd wished you would have asked him to taste you.

He gulps again, that delightful lump in his throat bobbing with the motion, and his reason crumbles away. His fingers cautiously begin to explore on their own, probing and spreading your slick not only over your labia, but over the very apex of your inner thighs too, slippery fingers occasionally massaging at soft flesh. It's so tentative, but so thorough, the way he explores this new paradise for himself. Shy and chaste, but with an eager interest in eliciting more of those lewd sounds he loves to hear you make. Your hands fall away from him when he's found his footing, propping them onto the table behind you to give you the leverage you need to grind harder into his wandering hand, aiding him by indirectly ushering it towards where you want it to be. With a slow, rising keen, you arch your back toward him, thrusting your chest out. It only just grazes his own, and he finds himself subconsciously stepping closer to you, if only to give you that extra contact. It provides a more comfortable angle for him, taking some of the strain off his wrist, making it easier for him to press two hesitant fingers at your sopping entrance. Credo remembers you sliding two of your slender fingers into yourself that night - oh yes, he can recall that sight so vividly, down to the very smell of you - but his are so much thicker than yours. Would one be better for you? Should he slowly work you open first? How does he do that?

You answer his concerns for him by sinking down onto his fingers, engulfing both of them right up to the knuckle in one single motion. Your eyes roll back, and your voice breaks as it pitches, and then you're riding his hand with needy gasps and impatient rolls of your hips. Credo is speechless before you, lips parted, torn, conflicted, and so _lost_ , but you don't need him to be speaking. He just has to watch you as you fuck yourself stupid on his gloved fingers; listen to the wet squelch between your legs whenever his fingers disappear inside you. He's trying to meet each erratic movement of your body, but his hands are inexperienced, trembling with the same sort of weakness he feels in his knees.

"That's enough…" he tries to reason with you, voice somehow static and flat, lacking in any confidence. But of course you don't pay him any mind. Not when there is not even a trace of conviction in his tone. He doesn't want to stop; he's merely putting on airs. Thinly veiled airs.

The tight pressure that he can feel through his gloves, the occasional clench of your muscles around his welcome intrusion has him biting back a low groan. He sorely wishes he could feel you with his bare hands, but there's no denying the surge of adrenaline in his veins at how much he gets off on seeing you reduced to putty, smearing that sweet ambrosia all over worn leather and loving every second of the close attention he's giving you. It's a two way street, this road to depravity, where you've both met halfway to fuel and feed the other's desire.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Your voice is trembling, but your eyes are steady, watchful and full of such mirth that it borders on hysteria. His fingers stop pumping, but your body continues to move, rocking onto his hand and forcing the table to rattle on uneven legs. For several seconds that feel entirely too long, it's the only sound in the room. At least until Credo bites down on his lip and angles his thumb just right to press at that little nub he remembers you paying so much special attention to when you fucked yourself on his desk.

Your orgasm is instantaneous, and oh so rewarding, jolting your entire body in a series of spasms so powerful that you have to lean all of your weight onto the table behind you before your legs give out. _He remembered_ , you think to yourself with the last fleeting scraps of your cognition. All thought fails you after that, and all you can think about is how hard you're squeezing down around his fingers, and how, on each clench, the air is forced out of your lungs in soundless gasps.

There are unrecognisable colours blooming in your vision, and you realise that somewhere along the way you'd wrenched your eyes shut as you rut fervently into his hand to prolong your sensuous peak. But when it does subside, you sink back against the table as every muscle in your body relaxes. Your vision is blurry and somehow oversaturated when you finally open your eyes, but when they do, they refocus on Credo's face, mesmerised by the physically intimate show you gave him. A shaky hand lifts, seeking out his that's still trapped between your legs, and just like when you slipped it under there mere minutes ago, you guide it back out, giving one last sigh when his fingers slip out you.

That heady, musky smell of your sex fills the air between you as you lift his hand up, and in the light, the black leather glistens and shines with a thick coating of your slick. It webs between his fingers, the weight of each strand dragging slowly downwards, and you know you only have a second to react before it makes even more of a mess. You pull his hand towards your face, pink tongue slipping out from between your lips to lick his fingers clean, at which Credo _actually whimpers_. Like when they were inside your tight little cunt, he can't really feel the heat when you suck them into your mouth, but he knows what it feels like on his cock, and so by extension, he has a rather profound and visceral understanding of what that might feel like on his fingers. He nudges forward a little more so your thigh grazes at the noticeable tent in his pants, and like that, with his fingers now in your mouth being sucked clean, and your thigh nestled between his, rubbing and teasing at his throbbing bulge, you relish in the taste of stretched and overworked leather as it mixes with your own juices.  
  


* * *

  
"So what did you think?" Comes your innocuously phrased question as you shrug out of your coat and sling it back over the chair at your desk. The sun has sunk below the horizon now, bathing Credo's office in a dim orange glow. It continues to darken by the minute, and you move from candelabra to candelabra with your personal lighter in hand, flicking it open to light each candle to fight off the encroaching night. You both prefer the softer glow of candlelight over harsh artificial bulbs, finding the mellow light to be much easier on tired minds. It's especially true after arduous days of work, and perhaps _especially_ after days like this one. For lack of a better term, Credo is uncharacteristically slumped in his chair, head lolling backwards against the high backrest. His eyes are closed, head braced by his fingers at his temple, and he remains silent and still in some sort of a meditative state. What he's thinking about is beyond you, at least until he opens his eyes again and pulls himself back together, reforming himself into the proud Holy Knight everybody knows him to be.

For now anyway.

"You are too daring," he states calmly, eyes following you as you pace around his desk. The familiar tingling in his crotch begins to kindle when he sees you innocently popping the buttons of your blouse one by one, opening your shirt the whole way this time and pulling it free from the waistband of your skirt. It's dangling open by the time you're in front of him, and his chair creaks when you climb into his lap. All of this he watches you do in complete silence, because already, his heart is beginning to pound in his chest out of sheer anticipation of what's to come next.

"Am I?" You counter, your fingers walking up the solid expanse of his chest to drape over his shoulders. His breaths huff a little louder from his nose, but in another betrayal of all of his morals, he leans into your kiss, opening his mouth to the smooth feel of your tongue. If he really concentrates, he thinks he can single out the taste of your own arousal, even from hours ago. Even though he's never had the pleasure of tasting it for himself; a phantom flavour that makes his cock pull incessantly, painfully at the front of his trousers, and makes him squirm in his seat with a quiet squeak of synthetic leather. You're openly moaning into his mouth, shifting your weight so you're straddling his thighs. Currents of electricity follow the path your hands trace back down his front, where you're fiddling with his pants, groping and pulling blindly until you work his hard cock back out into the open air.

Credo jerks away from the kiss, sucking in a sharp breath at the first direct contact his aching cock has had since this morning, and when he follows your eyes downward, he's greeted with the sight of his member coloured with a deep red, emphasised by the soft orange glow of candlelight. You're holding it so softly, handling it with a tenderness that he swears makes him fall a little more in love with you right then and there, but then you pump it once. Just once. And his back is arching, both hands scrambling for your body to drag you closer, so that you might end this, please just _end this_.

"Is that what you want?" The question whispered into his temple makes him startle, realising that he'd babbled that desperate plea out loud. He doesn't know how he even finds it in himself to be embarrassed anymore when you've already seen the worst of his debased corruption, seen him at his lowest, but his eyes screw shut nonetheless, head thudding against the raised backrest of his chair.

"Yes…" he murmurs pathetically, and Credo feels a warm, wet sensation slide up his cheek after that - a path carved by your tongue.

"That's all you had to say, baby." His chair creaks, tilting backwards just a touch more as you rise up onto your knees and line him up with your wet folds. You toy with him a little longer than you need to, than either of you really _want_ to, rubbing the head of his cock up and down the length of your slit, listening for the needy keening that so easily slips from the lips of your superior. You honestly don't know how anybody who'd come within two feet of you couldn't smell the arousal gathering at the apex of your thighs - the smell of it is beginning to affect even you now - and all the more when you hear Credo growl; the first aggressive noise he's made ever since the day began. Your head snaps back up to meet with his. Challenge meeting defiance. But he isn't the immovable object he thinks he is. Today has proven that. "Feeling brave, are you?" Your voice drops into something low and predatory. "I'm going to swallow you whole."

And you do.

You burrow the blunt head of his cock into your folds until it sits just at your dripping entrance, and then in one singular stroke, you drop down onto his thick shaft, bottoming out and forcing a harsh, choked gasp to rip from the both of you. You don't give him the time to adjust to the feel of you, or the mind numbing tightness, or how searingly _hot_ your sweet cunt is, or even how maddeningly wet you are. You don't intend to take it slow with him. You won't let him relish in it. You just start to immediately fuck yourself on his cock, pace rigrorous and punishing and true. His chair rocks back dangerously, creaking, squeaking and groaning in protest under the weight and repeated violent swaying. But those sounds of exertion merely add to the orchestra of this filthy symphony; wet slaps; strained, muffled voices… all building off of baser instincts that Credo thought he was so far above. But when he watches you roll your hips, feeling the desperate press of your body against his, hears that enslaving melody in your voice, he thinks of his past self as foolish.

It's so unlike him, so unbecoming of someone in his position, but he couldn't care less about any of that at the moment, and a string of babbled curses and swears flow as freely and generously from him as your slick does from your slit, dribbling down his cock and splattering onto the pristine whites of your uniforms.

"Ngh… Credo--" A half delirious smile pulls at your lips, and you laugh at how perfectly his cock stuffs you full, your cunt stretching so tightly around him. "I knew. I knew your cock would fit perfectly." Desperate fingers grip at his shoulders, balling his surcoat into quivering hands. Gulping down a lungful of air, you continue to ride him, harder, deeper. The chair tilts back dangerously far and something underneath it cracks, splitting the air with a horrid and foreign sound. But by some miracle, it still holds, and so neither of you pay it any mind. Even if you both end up tumbling to the floor, it just gives you more space to fuck your Captain in. "Can you feel it? Can you feel how tight I am for you? You're so thick--"

His breathing is so choppy and uneven that his head is beginning to spin and swim and sink and _drown_ in a whirlpool of frazzled nerves and scalding heat. He can't form words anymore, but he doesn't want to anyway - he only cares about feeling your wet velvet grip at his cock. It's so much more intense than simply being sucked off, but maybe that's just because he's been bridling with tension all day, pushed and teased to the brink of a madness he'd only vaguely read about. Though he'd pleaded you for it, now that he has you bouncing relentlessly on his cock, he doesn't actually want this to end. He wants to feel the weight of you on his thighs, and the malleable flesh of your ass in his hands forever, trapped in a web of depravity and perversion and your tight little hole that's clenching and squeezing and, fuck--

He doesn't want to cum yet.

_He doesn't want to cum yet…!_

"Baby boy, I don't think I can last much longer." You gasp, the crude nickname you just made up for him tumbling so naturally from you - a taunt that was meant to be. "You'll cum with me, won't you? Cum deep inside until-- ah… until I can't hold any more of you--"

Frantic hands squeeze at your ass one last time, and then you're being lifted up by strong arms. His cock is still buried all the way to the base inside your cunt even as he drops you onto his desk. It's a daring move, one he didn't think he had the boldness for, but his desire to please you is greater than his desire to have you ride his cock all night. He doesn't waste any time in settling between your legs, bracing his boots on the carpet below and digging his heels in to resume the hypnotic pace you'd set earlier with your hips. It's on instinct that your legs lift to wrap around his waist, your ankles locking together right above the base of his spine to provide a new, deeper angle he happily thrusts into you at. It makes his body twitch on every full-bodied stroke, his face sinking into that juncture between your shoulder and your neck. His hot breath comes out in short puffs, sometimes as a breathless wheeze, and others in hummed, muffled moans. Credo's hands roam your entire body - your thighs, the small of your back underneath your shirt, down the length of your arm that you've propped up behind yourself to support your weight - he always has to be touching you, committing the very shape of you to memory.

He wants to remember this, frenzied and carnal as it is. He wants to remember the moment he makes you cum on his cock - unshakeable, undeniable proof that you are just as much a slave for him as he is for you.

Something yanks at the back of his collar, on his hair too, and he distantly realises it's your other hand, pulling his head from the safety of your shoulder to guide it instead towards your face. The kiss is sloppy and chaotic, a mirror to the squelching wet mess that he's pounding into with reckless abandon. He must be hitting something so deep inside you, because you're whining into his mouth in such a way that he honestly thinks he's hurting you, if not for the slow, escalating convulsions that he feels around his turgid cock. Another thin string of saliva stretches between your mouths when you break the kiss, leaning back to bundle his larger body into your arms while you babble a string of words. Some coherent, most not. But all of them overlap each other somehow.

"Fuck me, Captain-- Fuck…"

"YourcockissogoodCredo."

"CaptainCaptain _Captain_ \--!"

It feels so much like something is breaking inside you when, with one more delirious thrust of his hips, you reach nirvana; a state that is equal parts breathtaking and mind shattering; somehow so physically intense, yet has you floating away and _completely numb_ ; it's hot and then it's cold; it's breaking you, but then you're being filled by something else.

It wasn't his intention to pump his cum inside your clenching cunt. It really wasn't. He was going to pull out and warm your skin with his sticky release instead, he swears it, but you told him to… you wanted his seed deep inside your hole, and Credo is nothing if not dutiful. He bottoms out inside you as he cums, and the sheer sensation of having you milk his cock makes his eyes roll up into his head. He's only vaguely aware that his tongue is half lolling out of his mouth, smearing your scorching skin with saliva when his head drops to that cozy little nook at the base of your throat. Your name is hissed weakly, his hips thrusting shallowly, slowly, gently as if it'll push his seed further into your body, but all it does instead is give it the room to seep out, dripping down your slit to pool onto his desk.

Surprisingly, it's Credo who manages to scrape together some semblance of coherence first, slowly lifting his head, cheeks freshly flustered, to press his forehead to yours. Neither of you can open your eyes yet, and so you both stay in that position, sharing the air in that tiny little space between you. Even after the haze lifts, and rationality returns, nobody moves, far too comfortable in sharing such an intimate moment. Your hand slides up his back to card through his hair, and his hands rub soothing circles at your lower back.

You're only brought out of your cozy bubble when Credo's poor chair finally falls apart with a crash.

You both look at each other, and then laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> ....so who's gonna file the report about the chair, huh? 👀


End file.
